


Besetment

by Unread



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Fitzjames, M/M, Post Carnivale, Survivor Guilt, Tender Sex, Tenderness, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 05:28:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17197409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unread/pseuds/Unread
Summary: There’s nothing Francis can think of to say to ease his mind, because he knows exactly what James is feeling. Today will be etched onto their souls for the rest of their lives--however long or short a span that may entail.





	Besetment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this Terror kinkmeme prompt:  
> https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=7820

“James. Are you well?” James had scarcely touched the meager offerings of the wardroom at dinnertime--not that Francis can truly blame him. After today, appetite was hard to come by.

James turns to look at him and Francis sees that his eyes still have a haunted, dim cast to them. His voice creaks as if it has frozen stiff as he says, “We burned thirty two men today. I don’t think I’ll ever be well again.”

There’s nothing Francis can think of to say to ease his mind, because he knows exactly what James is feeling. Today will be etched onto their souls for the rest of their lives--however long or short a span that may entail.

Francis runs his hand across the dark, oaken table-top. This may very well be the last night they spend in Terror’s great room. The thought is a wound inside Francis that lays alongside that of the deaths of his men. He knows not how long it will take for scar tissue to form, perhaps never. Perhaps he and James will be bleeding out from this forever.

Finally James speaks again, breaking the surface of Francis’s morbid thoughts with some of his own. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t--the bloody, wretched carnivale! I only wanted to give the men some relief...but I murdered them instead.”

Francis had so often resented James’s vain arrogance, and yet now he finds he cannot bear watching his self-reproof. It’s a painful thing to bear witness to, especially since the guilt is misplaced. “There are no murders here, James,” he says, with such sharpness it surprises even himself. “Your intentions were good. There was no way to foresee what happened last night. No one could have known. No, it is not you who is to blame.” Francis sits down in the chair beside James, and pulls it close enough that their knees touch. “I have been an absent leader, and you have been carrying the weight of my responsibilities and your own since Sir John died. It is far too heavy a burden for one man to bear. If there is fault here, it is mine to be had, not yours.”

James shakes his head as if trying to shake away intrusive thoughts, or perhaps Francis’s attempt at reassurance. “I cannot bear it. The men…” His voice gives way to sudden, awful sobs, and all Francis can do is lean forward and pull him clumsily into his arms. James clings to him like a child, burying his face in Francis’s coat. His rib cage shudders under the thick layers of his clothing as Francis gently, helplessly, pats his back.

James still smells of smoke, and it makes Francis’s gorge rise in a way that even the absence of alcohol in his body could not manage. James would certainly be smelling it on Francis, too. They both reeked of horrors they needed to rid themselves of, if they were to continue on in any sane manner. If they were to sleep through the night.

“Come now,” Francis murmurs. “I’ll have Jopson bring us some water and we can have a bit of a wash. It may be some time before we can again.”

He takes James by the shoulders and sits him upright again. James’s bloodshot, wet eyes don’t meet Francis’s own, and he’ll not have it. “James, look at me. There will be no shame between us. There is no shame in grieving for the men, but guilt will not serve you well. It’ll only sap your courage and your confidence. You must think of those who are still alive, and let the past alone for now.” Francis waits for James to sit straighter and finally meet his eyes with a silent nod before getting up to find Jopson.

When water, towel, and a sliver of soap is brought forth (Jopson hovers in the hope of being made of more use, but Francis sends him away to join the rest of the men abed with a grateful, sorry smile), Francis puts the basin in front of James on the table--the only level surface in the room. “Wash, man. You’ll feel better for it.”

The appeal to James’s fastidiousness seems to have an effect. He stares into the basin for a moment and then begins to remove his cravat, compelled, no doubt, by habit rather than desire. But once he gets going, determination takes over and off comes his waistcoat and jumper as well.

Francis goes into his tiny cabin with his own determination. He retrieves one of his shirts and a thick jumper from his lopsided dresser. Rather less fine than James is used to, but they don’t smell of ashes and death. He’ll be damned if he lets the man sleep with that stench filling his senses. He himself cannot wait to be rid of it in the hopes it will quell the roiling in his guts.

When he returns to the great cabin, James has made good headway, his face and hair now damp and scrubbed.

“Take off that shirt. I’ve a clean one for you.”

James complies, and it’s then that Francis catches him in a wince. When his skin is bared, he can see why--there’s a large purple bruise on James’s left side, the almost perfect impression of a Navy-issued boot. Francis stares at it. “Good God, what’s happened to you?”

James carefully sets his shirt on top of the pile of his other discarded clothing, not meeting Francis’s eyes. “I fell during the carnivale.”

“You look like you’ve been trampled, man.”

“I would have been, had not someone pulled me up. I don’t even remember who it was that saved my life. Perhaps he was one of the ones who died. And yet I survived.” James's voice holds so much shame that Francis can hardly bear to hear it. He has never felt such discomfort in the presence of another, not even when Sir John told him he was hard to love.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not sorry about that,” Francis says, and there’s a growl in his voice he can’t quite rein in. “The men need you. _I_ need you.”

“Do you, Francis?” James’s voice was so soft it was barely audible. Francis takes to his seat again, leaning forward intently. He removes the washcloth from James’s stilled hand and drops it back into the basin. “Do you remember what I said to you, not ten minutes ago? This is a burden too great to rest upon a single set of shoulders. We must carry it together lest we collapse under its weight. We have both made mistakes and we will continue to if we do not support each other. And our men are worth more than mistakes, are they not?” He takes James’s wet, limp hand and grips it firmly in his own. “Swear to me now you will not let me fall, and I will swear the same to you.”

James meets his eyes then, through the sodden locks of his hair, and finally Francis sees a spark of light in their dim depths. “I swear it,” he says raggedly, squeezing Francis hand with surprising strength. “I swear it, Captain.”

“Good man.” Francis releases their hands, and then takes a better look at the deep bruise marking James’s pale torso. “Should I call for Goodsir? You may have cracked a rib.”

“No, I don’t think I have. The pain is not bad enough for that.”

Francis raises an eyebrow, wondering how James knows enough to recognise a set of broken ribs. His wandering eyes fall then on an old scar just a few inches above the bruise, dark pink against goose-pimpled skin. There’s a matching one to be found in the meat of James’s upper arm, too. “Can this be the famous Chinese bullet wound?” he remarks, unable to keep a hint of sudden mirth out of his voice.

James’s cheeks redden. “God. What an arse I was.”

Francis can’t help it now, and he grins broadly at James. His amusement is equal to his relief at seeing some life return to James’s features. “That I’ll not deny.”

James glares at him for a second before his lips curve into a reluctant smile. His eyes hold Francis’s for a long moment and the humour between them gently fades into something else. Fellowship, perhaps. More connection than he’s ever imagined he’d feel with the man, that was certain. In a subdued but grateful voice, James says, “Thank you, Francis.”

“Don’t thank me. Wash, before you catch a chill.”

James complies and quickly finishes the remainder of his ablutions. He pauses when Francis hands over his own clothes for him to wear, but puts them on without comment. Seeing James in his rather shabby jumper makes something in Francis’s chest tighten, but he cannot say why.

“You’ll find my bed in there. Get some rest, James.”

“I can’t take your bed,” James protests, looking rather embarrassed.

“You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept for two days. Go on, now. That’s an order.” James’s mouth twists as if he wants to argue, but then simply nods and shuffles into the tiny cabin. Whatever he said about his ribs, Francis can tell he’s hurting, body and mind both. He’ll have Goodsir take a look at him in the morning, he decides, whether James agrees or not. The body can be fixed...although the mind is another matter.

Alone in the crooked, creaking room, Francis takes a moment to breathe, to order his thoughts. Usually solitude is a balm to him, removing a weight he often didn’t realise he was carrying, but now it makes him fall prey to thoughts he doesn’t want to surface. The thirty two bodies they’d burned that day. The few, useless words Francis had spoken. How James had stared at the burning dead men, his face an ill mask.

Jerkily, Francis pulls the basin to him and sets about removing his outer garments. Busying himself was the only option he had to get away from unwanted recollections, now that whiskey was off the table. The desire for it still burns hot in his gut and makes his mouth water. If there was ever a day to get drunk, this would have been it. But he had sworn it off, and he’ll not let his men be in this any longer without his sober direction. He’ll not leave James at the helm all alone again, either. He’d sworn that, too.

He doesn’t do as thorough a job at washing as James did, forgoing the removal of his undershirt. The water in the basin is frigid and dirty but Francis is too tired to care. When he’s finished he no longer catches whiffs of smokiness on himself, which is good enough.

He dries off briskly and then carefully enters his night cabin. It’s dark, but a bluish-white light filters in from the porthole, casting angular shadows in the tiny room which is already tilting unnaturally. James’s long, lean form adds to the lines, stretched out on the narrow bed. Francis quietly locates his second coat, the one that is innocent of the past two days’ events, and wraps it around himself. With plans of hitching a hammock in the great room, he moves back to the doorway, but the sound of James’s voice stills him.

“Francis. You’ll freeze if you sleep out there.”

“The brazier has life in it yet,” Francis says, even though they both know the brazier barely touches the coldness of the room now, its heat seeming to be sapped faster than it can be produced. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.” James’s voice is a hollow, aching thing in the gloom. “I close my eyes and I’m back there, in that frightened, trapped mass of burning men. I need distraction, or I shall go mad.” He shuffles about on the mattress, moving his body far against the wall and leaving a thin strip of bed free. “Stay, and tell me a story. You’ve heard all mine.”

Francis almost refuses, but finds he can’t bring himself to do so. James sounds so very desperate--and he must be, if he’s reaching out to Francis of all people for comfort. Francis sighs, then makes his way to the bed and lies down on the sloping mattress. He’s surprised at the warmth to be found at being so near to another human body. It’s been some time since he’s shared such close quarters with anyone. “A story, eh?” He racks his brain for something, something that is far away from where they are. “Well, I’m not telling you about Miss Cracroft, if that’s what you’re after.”

James laughs, a scratchy, surprised sound. “A gentleman through and through, you are.”

“I’m no gentleman.” Francis grimaces at the ceiling. “Or at least not one worthy of her. She was gone from me long before we set sail. I can see that now.”

“I thought you weren’t going to speak of her.”

“I thought I was speaking of me,” Francis says, turning his head to show the wry smile on his face. It startles him to find James’s own face so close--a scarce two inches away--so much so that his smile falls away and his breath stills in his throat. James’s eyes are dark in the half-light, and Francis finds himself lost in their depths, his next words forgotten.

The moment holds suspended between them for a taut, breathless span--in which Francis’s mind imagines impossibilities--and then James closes the distance and _does_ the impossible, as if Francis has somehow willed it into happening: James kisses him.

James’s mouth is warm, quite shockingly so. Francis instinctually opens his own lips to dip deeper into the wet heat offered up to him, tasting James’s tongue for a few nebulous seconds...before rationality descends like a dropped anchor and he pulls away, breathing unevenly. His heart is pounding inside his chest, and it feels louder to him than the moans of the dying ship. James stares at him again, but the atmosphere between them has changed. Francis is trying to recover his equilibrium, and James...there’s a good dose of fear in his expression now. Francis can see the moonlight reflecting off his spit-slick mouth, and a sudden need rises up inside him with such seismic ferocity that for a moment he thinks _Terror_ herself has finally split apart from under them. There will be no regaining his footing after this, he thinks. They will both of them be lost to the deeps, and yet somehow that thought doesn’t bother Francis as much as it once might have. If this is the relief James needs, then who is he to say him nay?

“Francis, I’m sorry, I--” James starts, and once again the shame in his voice is unbearable. Francis can’t let him carry this alone, either.

“Shh, quiet now. Come here.” Francis reaches out an unsteady hand and lets his fingers graze across James’s jaw--he remembers delivering a blow to that very spot not too long ago--and then cups his cheek. Touching James’s face somehow feels just as intimate as kissing him had. James lets out a soft breath when Francis brushes a long strand of dark hair away from his forehead, and Francis can’t resist the compulsion to lean forward and taste his lips again. The relieved noise James makes is worth whatever this may cost them down the line. James’s mouth opens again for him, and he delves once more into its heated depths.

James’s hands reach out blindly to grip the lapels of Francis’s coat and pull him bodily closer, as if their connected mouths are simply not enough. Francis finds he thoroughly agrees. Their lower parts briefly connect and Francis feels James’s hardness, which shocks him even though he is already aware that James desires this unlikely intimacy. To test the waters, he slides a leg between both of James’s and presses gently against the firmness of James’s cock. The response is galvanic; James bucks his hips into him and moans into his mouth, still clinging to Francis’s coat like a lifeline.

Francis lets his hand wander downwards to dip under James’s jumper and shirt--no, it’s _his_ clothing James is wearing--and find the warm skin beneath. He is careful of James’s left side, fingers ghosting gently over where he remembers the bruise to be, skimming upwards until he finds a nipple. It’s taut from cold, and as his fingers trace its circumference, it hardens still further. It causes James to break their kiss with a moan, a sound that seems to resonate in Francis’s loins.

“Francis,” James says, his voice strained and breathy, “ _God_ , Francis.”

“Is this the distraction you were after?” Francis asks, a little amusement in his voice even though he means the question quite seriously.

James looks back at him, need evident on his face. “It is now,” he whispers, rocking his hips against Francis’s leg but clearly unable to quite get the friction he needs. “Please. Keep touching me.”

Francis wouldn’t deny James that request for all the whiskey in Great Britain. He moves his hand from James’s nipple back downwards, over the lean planes of his stomach. There is a faint trail of hair underneath his navel that Francis follows until it comes to a stop at the waistline of James’s trousers. “Like this?”

James’s voice is tremulous as he say, “Yes. Don’t...don’t stop.”

Francis reaches down and palms James’s cock through the fabric of his trousers, which causes James to groan almost as if he’s in pain and harden still further. Francis doesn’t want to keep him waiting, so he quickly undoes the fastenings. He’s never undressed another man before, and might find it akin to disrobing himself if his hands weren’t so unsteady. James, however, doesn’t seem to notice, to Francis’s relief. Once unbuttoned, Francis dips his hand inside and takes James’s hardness in his grip. He pumps once, twice--also not unlike touching himself, except for how there’s also a world of difference in it--and then removes his hand. James makes a protesting noise at the loss, but Francis shushes him gently and reaches over to the shelf above their heads to retrieve a tiny pot of salve, intended for soothing chapped lips and hands. He quickly coats his fingers and, then reaches for James again. The salve eases the way and with every stroke Francis makes, James lets out a desperate groan.

“ _Francis_ ,” James breathes again, a reverence to his voice that Francis definitely is not deserving of. James clumsily pulls Francis close by his shirt collar and their mouths connect with nearly bruising impact. Francis can almost taste the noises he’s trying not to make as Francis’s hand steadily works his cock. He releases James’s mouth and trails kisses down the stubbled length of his throat and those noises are let loose. The last, sane part of Francis hopes they are lost in the groaning of the ice and wood.

He knows when James is close when he feels his back curve upwards, and spasms start to overcome his body. His cock jerks in Francis’s fist and hot, wet seed coats his fingers. The expression of agonised ecstasy on James’s face is something Francis will not soon forget. His own, neglected cock throbs almost painfully with the need for release at the sight.

But he is also content to simply see James’s lax face. It’s as if a heavy weight has been lifted from him, if only for the moment, and Francis feels a little proud to be the cause of it. That is enough. He captures as much as he can of James’s seed and wipes it onto the bed linens, and then gently buttons James’s trousers back up. Then Francis closes his eyes and tries his damndest to will his arousal away and himself to sleep.

“Francis.” James, of course, can’t leave well enough alone. “Don’t you want me to…”

Francis keeps his eyes shut as he says, “Go to sleep, James.”

There’s a moment of silence before James speaks again. “Please. Let me do for you what you did for me.”

“It’s not necessary,” Francis said, trying not to let his desperation bleed through.

“You said we must support each other, remember? Or we shall both of us fall.”

Francis groans. “Not in this, James. I did not mean in this. You needn’t feel obliged--”

“I don’t. I _want_ to, Francis.” James’s hands settle at the waistband of Francis’s trousers, pausing there somewhat hesitantly.

“You needn’t,” Francis says again, trying to swallow down his own doubts and arousal. In response, James simply begins to unbutton him. At the first touch of James’s hand on his cock, Francis wonders why he ever attempted to refuse this.

“You’re hard as a rock,” James whispers, his voice sounding strangely awed. “Where’s that salve gone to?”

Francis can barely string words together, but somehow James manages to find the pot of salve amongst the linens. James coats his hand and returns it to Francis’s straining cock. The smooth glide from the salve combined with the heat of James’s hand is pure, unalloyed bliss.

“Look at me, Francis,” James whispers, and Francis does so. James is intent, his eyes fixed on Francis’s face as his hand works his cock. “Does it feel good? It felt good when you were touching me. God, Francis, it felt so good, your hand on me.” He tightens his fist around Francis a little more, and Francis can’t hold on any longer. He groans out a pained “ _James_ ,” and then the world freezes and shatters into a million bright white prisms, his body going rigid for a seemingly endless moment as James works him through his release.

When he finally opens his eyes again, James’s are closed. There’s a very pleased smile playing on the man’s face, which once upon a time would have provoked irritated ire from Francis. But now he cannot think past the warm, slack state of his own body, and finds himself appreciating the return of James’s cockiness. Francis hadn’t realised what a valuable thing it was until it was gone.

“Your gentleness I did not expect,” James says suddenly, his voice soft and drowsy. He opens his eyes and meets Francis’s. “I once thought you had no joy, nor anything approaching tenderness. Now I see that I simply did not know you. But I should have seen it. It was all right there. It’s in your eyes. Everything is in your eyes.”

Francis’s emptied mind struggles to formulate a response to these words even as his chest tightens as he registers their meaning. “I have not been displayed to my best advantage this past year--or two years. I’m surprised you’ve ever seen anything in me but a miserable, whiskey-soused curmudgeon.”

James quirks a grin at him. “That too.”

Francis smiles back at him, and then rather impulsively closes the few inches between them and kisses James. It feels different this time, without the urgency of desperate need, and yet somehow all the more intimate for it. James accepts his kiss, his mouth as warm as ever, and Francis can feel the smile on his lips. When he pulls away, it’s still there.

“Go to sleep, James,” he says brusquely, which only serves to make James’s smile a little wider.

“Aye aye, Francis,” James whispers as he closes his eyes again, smile gone soft.

Francis can feel the exhaustion starting to seep back in, but now it is accompanied by a pleasant sort of lethargy. It’s a change from his usual restiveness that had once only been assuaged by drink. It doesn’t take long for James’s breathing to become slower and deeper, now able to find the dark relief of sleep he so badly needs. Francis watches James’s slack, slumbering face and feels himself getting pulled under along with him, sinking down into sleep with far more ease than whiskey had ever offered him.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love some Terrors to talk to on tumblr...I have no one! You can find me [here](http://lookslikeaquentinblakedrawing.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
